Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, at my knapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping on a pure and fresh-struck core.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "who knaps outside my chamber door --
                                        Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for lost and ancient Lore
On how the Ancients made their bipolar core --
                                          Nameless here for evermore.

And striking platforms, antler tips, conchoid fractures, pressure nips
Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some wannabe entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late wannabe entreating entrance at my chamber door; -- 
                                        This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I'm caught napping, when I should have been a-knapping
And so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping,
Tap, tap, knap,knap - just a-tapping knapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " -- here I opened wide the door; ---- 
                                        Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no Knapper e'er dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Bipolar Core!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Bipolar Core!" --
                                        Merely this, and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a knapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what there at is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 
                                        'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -- 
                                        Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling, my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore...
And so I spoke upon the spot, for this I deemed was what he sought
"Thy beak is worn with too much flaking, on artifacts you been a-making
For 'tis plain, Fell Bird, though you seem to balk, that even yet Thou Walk'st the Walk...
Chipping (and chirping?) thy way through Life...Cans't also... yet Talk'st the Talk?"
Ghastly grim and ancient raven, Wandering in from far-off shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" 
                                       Quoth the raven "Bipolar Core!"

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
For its answer bore much meaning -- much relevancy did it bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 
                                       With such name as "Bipolar Core!"

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered -- nor his flaking baton waved or fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other chips have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my chips have flown before."
                                       Quoth the raven "Bipolar Core!"

Wondering at the stillness broken, by his steady chipping as a token,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster so when Hope he would adjure --
Stern Despair returned, instead of the Plano Point he dared adjure --
                                       That sad answer, "Never -- nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
                                       Meant in croaking "Bipolar Core!"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This, and more, I sat divining, dreaming with my head reclining
Touch, re-touch, and French raclage' , (not to forget le debitage')
Medial ridge, and pressure flake (mayhap his name was really Jake?)
On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
Prismatic blades by chest-yoke driven , driven from Obsidian Core
Prismatic blades soon covered my own, my private Chamber's floor.
                                          (A sinuous edge....? Ah, Nevermore!)

Then, me thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Spirit Knappers whose faint foot-falls, tinkled on the chip-strewn floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these Spirits he hath sent thee
Respite -- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Yore;
Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget Lost Lithic Lore!" 
                                        Quoth the raven "Bipolar Core"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --
If Uniface must have a bevel, and Hafting Stems are best when ground
To save shaft lashings wound round and round...
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
Is there -- is there Silicate yet in Heaven? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
                                        Quoth the raven "Bipolar Core."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow full laden if, within the distant Haven,
It shall clasp a sainted flaker, and allowed just one time more
To chip a bifurcated , radiant point, from a flake struck from your Core...
Chip a rare and radiant point ,as was made in Days of Yore?"
                                        Quoth the raven "No Encore!"

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting --
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no worn-out antler tine, as token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" 
                                       Quoth the raven "Bipolar Core!"

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
As yet I chip a Side-Notched Point, though the Times Be Sadly Out of Joint...
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor...
                                        Murmurs now: "Bipolar Core... for Evermore!"